


The Wisdom of Solomon

by blakefancier



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-26
Updated: 2011-04-26
Packaged: 2017-10-18 17:09:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/191228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blakefancier/pseuds/blakefancier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blake wonders when they started fighting children.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wisdom of Solomon

Blake leaned against the doorway and watched. He watched Avon select a laser probe, hold it up for scrutiny and lay it back down before choosing another one. When he was working, at least, Avon had grace; the movement of his hands was elegant.

It was easy to watch Avon, to watch him frown and tilt his head at some problem. It was easier than sleeping--than trying to sleep. His eyes burned but he did not want to close them. He didn't want to see what was etched in his memory.

He pushed away from the doorjamb and walked over. He reached out his fingers and laid them over Avon's hand.

Avon looked up, opened his mouth as if to speak, then stopped.

He shouldn't, Blake knew he shouldn't. He knew he should let Avon get on with his work.

Instead he lifted Avon's hand to his mouth. He kissed each knuckle, brushed his cheek against the back of Avon's hand. Then he pressed a kiss to the tips of Avon's fingers, darting his tongue, just a hint, against the calluses. And then finally, he pressed a kiss to the palm of Avon's hand. Avon's fingers curled and brushed his lips.

"Come to bed, Avon," he said.

"All right. But I'll need my hand for a moment."

Blake nodded, and after a brief nuzzle, released it.

Avon's hands were steady as he tidied his workstation.

When he was done, they walked down the hall to their room. Blake could not keep himself from touching Avon. He could not help brushing his arm against Avon's or placing his hand on the small of Avon's back.

In their room, Blake held him from behind, wrapping his arms around Avon's waist and hugging him close. Muscle and sinew and heat in his arms--he didn't have to think of dead eyes and breath wet with blood. All he had to do was brush his lips against the nape of Avon's neck and feel him shiver.

He loved this. He loved the way Avon's hair curled when it was damp and the way it felt against his mouth. And he loved the way Avon tensed, his body still.

He unbuttoned Avon's shirt, then slowly pushed it down: first off Avon's shoulders, down his arms, past his wrists, until it fell to the ground.

Avon's body. He sketched Avon's shoulders with his fingers and his mouth, tasting the texture of skin. Before he could go further, Avon pulled away and turned around.

"Blake? What--" But again he held back the tumble of words. Instead he touched Blake's mouth with his fingers.

Blake knew that Avon would ask later. And perhaps later Blake would be able to tell him. Perhaps by then the memory would be less sharp, less defined.

Perhaps he would be able put into words the horror he had felt when he had looked into the face of a dying Federation soldier and had only seen a boy no older than eighteen. A boy who had cried and begged for Blake's help and had received it in the form of a blaster shot to the head.

They undressed and Blake laid Avon back against the bed.

He brushed Avon's temple with his thumb; the silver in Avon's hair was more pronounced there.

"It would hurt me if anything happened to you, Avon." He hadn't meant to say it. The words had slipped from his mouth before he could stop them.

Avon shifted underneath him and closed his eyes.

Suddenly, unaccountably, he was angry. Angry that Avon could ignore those words, that he could close his eyes without worry. Blake was so angry, he trembled.

Then Avon opened his eyes and looked at him. Blake could see the weariness there, weariness and something more. Resignation. Reciprocation.

The anger left as suddenly as it had come.

Blake stroked Avon's body, running hands over soft skin and coarse hair, outlining scars. He paid particular attention to the pattern of blue veins on Avon's wrists, tracing them with fingers and tongue. He could feel Avon's pulse.

He breathed damp heat along the skin of Avon's thighs and belly and tasted the tip of Avon's cock. He touched until he could feel the vibration of desire course through Avon's body, until he could feel motion restrained. Then he took Avon's cock and stroked it with both hands.

Avon cried out and arched in his grasp.

Blake had to remind himself that Avon's groans were of desire...pleasure. His hands trembled as he brought Avon to orgasm.

He used the sheets to wipe the come from his hands. Then Blake gathered Avon to him and hid his face against Avon's shoulder. Tears stung his eyes and he could feel a sob gather in his throat.

He would not. He would not.

Avon stroked his hair and rubbed a palm along his spine.

His body convulsed but still he would not.

"Tell me, Blake."

"Children," he ground out between clenched teeth. "When did we start using children to fight our battles?"

"Tell me," Avon repeated.

But Blake realized that he couldn't. He shook his head and burrowed his face in the crook of Avon's neck. Child or not, he would not, could not, mourn for the enemy.


End file.
